


Laughter in the Shadows

by claudia603



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-17
Updated: 2010-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-09 00:10:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudia603/pseuds/claudia603
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anniversary illness post-quest…Sam does his <br/>best to comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laughter in the Shadows

The seashore on a night with no moon is as black as the   
tunnels that worm through Cirith Ungol. Frodo fixes his gaze   
on the inky waves, which are smattered with pinpricks of   
cold starlight. He has never seen the seashore with worldly   
eyes, but in dreams he stands in the silky sand, relishing the   
eternal cacophony of wave after wave breaking ashore. The   
fine sand grains, mixed with pastel shards of broken shell,   
shift between his toes. Never in these dreams does he pay   
them any heed, aside than a passing thought that he must at   
some point gather shells and bring them home to Sam.   
Sam's eyes would light up if he were to hold such fairy   
treasure -- all the sea captured inside a pink, ridged spiral.

Frodo shivers. He cannot seem to stop the chills, and he   
peers outside the round window of the study in Bag End,   
wishing the sun were more than a cold gleaming coin.   
Today the chill has traveled from his shoulder down his arm   
to the tips of his fingers. Shadows press against his heart   
like the waves in his dreams – at first in chilly tugs, growing   
into violent icy surges.

Frodo tries for a time to write. His hand shakes as he strokes   
ink against paper. His handwriting wobbles and ink smears,   
and at last he falters, dropping the quill. He probes his   
chilled shoulder with numb fingers.

He hunches over his desk, bowled over by the chafing   
weight around his neck.

For a second his heart lifts with wild hope.

It's back…he has it once again…it was never destroyed.

He claws at his neck, but his fingers only snag the sharp   
edges of Arwen's pendant. Aching loss fills him, yet he still   
clings to the betraying pendant like a drowning hobbit would   
a floating log. The jewel warms his fingers, and his breath   
eases.

Sam's voice breaks in. "Sir?"

Frodo wobbles on the edge of the fiery end, and flames   
crackle and snap around them. Blistering gusts fill his lungs   
with poison. The end – this is how it will end. He scarcely   
notices the sweat that keeps his clothes glued to his skin. He   
will fight no longer.

A singing joy surges through him when at last he can stop   
resisting the leering whispers of the Ring. He marvels that   
he has not claimed it before now. How much easier his   
journey might have been.

Sam is untamed now, his face fierce with a fiery orange   
glow, filthy with soot. Smug satisfaction rushes through   
Frodo, that he has caused fear in one that tried to take the   
Ring from him. Had Sam not left him for dead with no   
thought but to take the Ring for himself? Did he not deserve   
to see his noble false loyalty crushed at his feet?

What are you waiting for? Destroy it!

No.

"You didn't answer my knock, so I let myself in," Sam says   
apologetically. "I wanted to make sure you were well and all,   
seeing what day it is."

Frodo blinks, taking in his scattered study. No searing blasts   
of air spitting sparks – how could he have ever been hot? A   
deep chill has fallen, dropping a gray veil before his eyes.

He will never hold it again. It is gone forever. Forever.

"You don't look well at all," Sam says. "Perhaps you ought   
to give yourself a break and take a bit of a rest? I can make   
you some hot tea. Come now, let's get up. Just you lean on   
me now."

Sam pulls Frodo out of his chair, and Frodo extends his cold   
hand outward, flexing and retracting his fingers with   
frustrated need. Sam would understand. He was there, with   
him, at the end of all things. "Sam…It is gone."

"Well, yes, sir, that is the truth," Sam says with false   
cheerfulness, clasping that chilled hand as he leads Frodo   
down the tunnel toward his bedroom. "That is what we set   
out to do."

"I want…I need to touch it…just one more time." Frodo's   
fingers twitch within Sam's firm grip.

"I'm here, Mr. Frodo. I'm still right here with you. Just let me   
help you. You should have sent for me, though I suppose   
you couldn't. I don't like it one bit that you're here all by   
yourself on a day like this."

Sam half carries Frodo into the bedroom where he lets him   
sink onto the edge of the bed only long enough to pull back   
the covers. Strong arms guide Frodo under the covers.

"Goodnight."

 

***

In the dim late afternoon, the burnt autumn rays of fading   
sunlight put a sinister chill in Sam's heart. He gazes down at   
Frodo, at the yellow-gray hue that has chased the healthy   
roses from his cheeks, and he is suddenly struck numb by a   
truth he has denied for several months.

Frodo is dying.

How much longer, Sam wonders, and he is surprised that he   
feels almost nothing at all, just a sharp feeling of the   
unavoidable. Sinking onto the edge of Frodo's bed, Sam   
stares forward in a stupor, remembering a conversation from   
only days ago.

"You must talk to her soon, Sam."

"But I can't…Not after…" Sam's heart cracks until he can   
scarcely speak at all. He has been waiting for everything to   
calm down, thinking that surely Frodo will welcome him back   
into his heart – that they might share the remainder of their   
peaceful days in Bag End. Rosie is a good lass, and Sam   
hates to break her heart, especially seeing how she waited   
so long for him and all, but she will find another, one who is   
fine and whole, with proper hobbit sense and no Elvish   
fancies.

"Rosie has been patient." Frodo gives him a sad smile and   
turns away.

Sam does not have a way with words, as Frodo does. He   
can fumble about trying to tell folk about their adventures at   
the Green Dragon, but always it ends with laughter and   
cheery-faced hobbits teasing him about how traveling the   
world had not dulled his fanciful side. Merry and Pippin are   
the heroes. What they did is tangible, easy to understand   
and cheer – battles and cities under siege and swords and   
armor. They did not crawl across Mordor, under nameless   
shadows.

Only Frodo knows, and when he dies, so will their tale.

Under the shadow of a boulder, they are pressed against   
each other as the ground shakes and rumbles. If they peer   
outside, they can see Mount Doom, not more than a few   
days travel. Foul bursts of air choke their gasps. Frodo's   
hand flutters toward the weight that dangles from his neck   
but he yanks it away, as if by great force of will. His hands   
push under Sam's tattered shirt, stroking with frantic need.   
Sam rolls on top of him, hard already, shocked by how easy   
he becomes aroused, here at the end of the world. He   
pushes Frodo's breeches down effortlessly -- Frodo was   
never plump to begin with and now there's not much to him   
at all. Sam can scarcely meet Frodo's eyes as he pushes   
the tip of his engorged length into Frodo. Back in the sunny   
days of working in Bag End's garden, he never dreamed   
he'd be doing such a thing.

Frodo giggles, a jarring sound that Sam had nearly forgotten,   
and he pauses, trembling.

"What is it?"

"Here we are…fumbling about like tweens…" His eyes are   
bright, filled with a mischief Sam has not seen since before   
Weathertop. "Sam, stop being coy. We may not survive   
beyond this night."

And after that, it was glorious, the best night during that dark   
odyssey. They lock eyes, smiling, laughing with delight at   
each other's pleasures, despite the shadows. They ravish   
one another's coarse lips -- biting, sucking, and drinking   
what little moisture is still left. The joy is not in the pounding,   
pulsing heat that fills his cock as he bucks against Frodo's   
slender hips or even in the joyous way that Frodo laughs and   
clings to Sam's curls when he comes. Instead, it is lying on   
top of Frodo and feeling his heart upon Frodo's and being   
unable to distinguish between their heartbeats.

Sam crawls under the covers to Frodo's bed and cradles   
Frodo, just as he did so many nights far from home. Frodo   
opens his eyes, which appear larger than ever, outlined by   
sickly dark circles.

"You came," Frodo murmurs, as if he does not remember   
being guided to his bed. "I'm glad you're here."

Sam swallows. "Don't you pay no heed to shadows. I'll   
chase them away."

"You always have." Frodo closes his eyes. "Dear Sam," he   
whispers. "Whatever shall you do?"

"Hush." Sam kisses cold lips, and when Frodo stirs and   
smiles, Sam's heart lifts, as if, like in a fairy tale, he can once   
more bestow life.

END


End file.
